


Filth

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Anime Spoilers, Biting, Blood, Consensual Violence, Cruelty, Crying, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Aftercare, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3718843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Imayoshi looks surprisingly ordinary when he answers his door." Hanamiya comes to gloat and Imayoshi doesn't react the way he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Imayoshi looks surprisingly ordinary when he answers his door.

Hanamiya doesn’t know what he was expecting. Tears, maybe, or at least some evidence of them, a frown or a sigh or something to stand testimony to Touou’s loss earlier in the day. That’s more than half the reason he came over, was to investigate the open wound of Imayoshi’s failure, to see how sadism and grief fall into place together; it’s something of a disappointment, to see that nothing in Imayoshi’s expression has changed, not the sharp edge of his smile or the deceptive friendliness in his eyes. He’s precisely as he always is, if slightly paler from the exertion of the afternoon than he usually is.

“Makoto,” he says, all his usual pristine politeness in place in his tone, and steps aside in unspoken suggestion. “I didn’t expect you to be by.”

“Of course,” Hanamiya says, fights back the irritation of disappointment in his chest into a slippery purr as he comes forward, skimming a little too close to Imayoshi so he’s just crossing the boundary of the other’s comfort. “I wanted to make sure you were okay after losing.”

It’s a shallow attempt to elicit a reaction; Imayoshi’s hardly likely to forget the day’s events, particularly when his uniform is lying across a chair in plain sight of the door. But Hanamiya has to try, has to make the attempt at rubbing salt into wounds he can’t see, because they  _have_  to be there, even Imayoshi can’t be completely stoic at the end of his high school basketball career.

“Did you watch the game?” Imayoshi asks, his voice coming from so close over Hanamiya’s shoulder that anyone else would jump and startle. Even Hanamiya flinches from the rush of adrenaline too instinctive to repress, tensing for a moment before he deliberately relaxes, lets his shoulders go boneless and languid as he leans back to brush against the support of Imayoshi’s chest.

“A little.” He frames his mouth into a false-sympathy pout, widens his eyes until they’re dark with the impression if not the truth of tears when he looks up to gaze at Imayoshi. “I was cheering for you, senpai.”

Imayoshi’s push at his shoulder is hard but deliberate; it lacks the rough edge Hanamiya wants, the snapping of the other’s control he was hoping to elicit. It’s still enough to knock his balance out from under him, send him stumbling forward nearly to the chair holding the abandoned uniform.

“What do you want, Makoto?” Imayoshi asks, slow and smooth and certain. When Hanamiya looks back Imayoshi hasn’t moved towards him, has just folded his arms over his chest and tipped his head like his glasses are letting him see straight through everything that Hanamiya is, his flaws and darkness and bloodstained dreams, a piercing consideration that would be more daunting if Imayoshi weren’t half the cause of the red blurring Hanamiya’s memories. Instead it doesn’t feel like a threat as much as an offer, contemplation weighted heavy with meaning, and Hanamiya’s blood is burning in his veins, his pulse trembling in his throat and sticking heavy in his chest until it’s hard to put shape to the words he wants.

“You know what I want,” he manages, his voice skidding off an edge into dark suggestion that Imayoshi hasn’t yet made explicit. He doesn’t need to. They both know what happens when they’re together, both know that the only reason Hanamiya is ever here is to try to draw blood from Imayoshi and that he always leaves marked in his own; being coy serves no purpose at all, beyond teasing, and that’s far from their style.

This is no exception. Imayoshi ducks his chin in a nod of agreement, his smile pulling wider as he lifts a hand to push his glasses up, and when he speaks it’s to say “Put that on” with a gesture towards the uniform like it’s trash more than clothing.

Hanamiya doesn’t hesitate. It’s no weirder a request than most of the things they’ve done, far less so than some, and it’s not like he has anything worth hiding, not when he’s here to be laid open the way only Imayoshi can do. He sheds his shirt before he’s reaching for the jersey, unfastens his shorts with one hand while he shakes the uniform out, and when he kicks his clothes free of his legs he’s briefly stripped naked before he slides the jersey on over his head. It’s cold with the damp of Imayoshi’s sweat, clammy against his skin, but that’s no reason to hesitate when it’ll be off him again in a few minutes; the shorts go on next, a little too big at the hips but still tight enough to stay up. The jersey is larger, fabric hanging over Hanamiya’s arms as if to highlight the extra muscle he can see even under the t-shirt covering Imayoshi’s shoulders, but he doesn’t bother with that either; he turns instead, spreading his arms at his sides and tilting his head so his hair falls and catches against the fabric over him.

“This what you wanted?” he asks, lilting the words into a taunt even though he’s not sure exactly which kink he’s playing to, now. Easy enough to get him in a basketball uniform, and one that fits better than the borrowed one; maybe it’s about the mismatch in their sizes, Imayoshi getting off on seeing Hanamiya in the other’s uniform. Or possibly it’s some new and exciting brand of humiliation, a test to see if Hanamiya would hesitate at putting on a uniform stained by the exertion of a game. Hanamiya doesn’t care what the underlying reason was; whatever it is, he’s apparently fulfilling it, to judge from the way Imayoshi’s eyes are going dark watching him.

“Mm,” Imayoshi hums instead of fitting words to the shadow in his eyes, and then he’s there, moving in so fast Hanamiya doesn’t have a chance to pull back. The smile is right in front of his eyes, now, reflexive understanding of danger fluttering hot in his veins, and then Imayoshi’s hand is at his shoulder, a thumb pressing hard against the dip at Hanamiya’s throat.

“Down,” Imayoshi says, and “Make me,” Hanamiya hisses, and everything falls into a blur of motion. Hanamiya’s bringing his hand up in expectation of Imayoshi’s grabbing fingers, slapping the other’s wrist down and out-of-reach before it’s even made contact, but Imayoshi is moving his feet, too, stepping into the movement and kicking his foot in between Hanamiya’s. It gives him the advantage of balance, lets him lean in until Hanamiya has to fall back or take the impact of the other’s motion. He takes the impact, holds his ground until Imayoshi’s mouth slams against his, and then the burst of pain from his lip catching at the edge of his teeth is too much to push aside. He stumbles backward, a hand coming up to press against the hurt blossoming out into his mouth along with the iron-tang of blood, and Imayoshi turns his foot so Hanamiya’s stumbling motion catches against the obstacle. It’s one of his own moves, a favorite he’s used on more than one occasion, and in the brief time-dilation of panic Hanamiya is impressed at the twist of using his own move against him. Then he’s reaching out to seize at Imayoshi’s shirt, reflexive attempt to prevent the fall that is coming for him, and there’s a double impact, floor first and then Imayoshi landing on him, the force so strong it doesn’t register as pain right away. Hanamiya can feel his chest cramping, lungs seizing on breath he can’t get, and then Imayoshi pushes up off him and the pain hits, washing out over him like a full-body bruise blossoming out into his skin.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, reaches out to sink his fingernails hard against Imayoshi’s wrist where he other is holding himself up. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one,” Imayoshi smiles, and he’s reaching under Hanamiya’s hip, sinking his fingers in against the other’s ass in a hold so tight it’s sharply painful before he shoves to roll him over onto his front. Hanamiya’s face hits the floor, his nose crushing against the surface, and he spits a protest, the sound leaving a smear of blood against the floor from his torn-open lip. The color brings a shudder down Hanamiya’s spine and the spark of an idea into his thoughts, turns his head so he can look back over his shoulder at Imayoshi’s calmly concentrated expression.

“Better be careful,” he purrs, sucking deliberately loud at the spill of liquid from his torn lip. “I might bleed on your precious uniform.”

This fails to get the response he was hoping for; Imayoshi neither frowns, nor growls, nor smacks Hanamiya’s head back to the ground. He just shrugs, the movement slack with a complete lack of emotional response, says, “It doesn’t matter if you do,” and grabs for Hanamiya’s wrist to twist his arm back behind him.

Hanamiya doesn’t resist, for once. He’s caught in confusion, lost in the context of the situation and struggling to gain traction. “Doesn’t  _matter_?” he tries, letting Imayoshi’s hold push him forward against the floor as a hand pushes the oversized jersey up against his spine, drags the shorts unceremoniously off his hips. He forces a laugh, as sharp and manic as he can manage, twists his wrist in Imayoshi’s unbreakable hold so he can feel his skin catch and pull raw under the other’s fingers. “But  _senpai_ , it’s your  _uniform_ , a memento of all your hard work.” He rock his hips forward, drags the head of his hardening cock against the front of the half-loose shorts so the heavy fabric will catch him closer to satisfaction. “You don’t want me ruining all that.”

Hanamiya can’t help the way his voice dips low and sultry on the words, anticipation flooding hot into him. It’s intoxicating to have something so valuable pressed against his skin, like borrowing the evidence of effort and pressing it in against him where he can stain it with his own blood and come at will, turn it filthy and useless. But Imayoshi doesn’t let him go, doesn’t drag the clothes off him in the fit of defensiveness Hanamiya was half-hoping for; he just laughs, the sound as sharp and clean as it ever is, and when he says, “I don’t care,” it sounds more sincere than anything Hanamiya has ever heard from the other’s lips.”It’s just garbage, now.”

Hanamiya’s blood goes hot, a shudder of resonant understanding running through him, and when he opens his mouth the sound that comes out is a groan, vocal proof of the flush that runs through his entire body like a shock. The clinging damp of the jersey shoved up around his waist and down against his knees transforms, the possibility of intended humiliation evaporating, and he can feel his cock jump in instant response, go hard and painful against the floor under his hips.

“You’re right,” he admits, pushing his free hand down between his stomach and the floor, crushing his fingers in against himself so he can rock up against the too-rough friction. “Now that you’ve  _failed_. Doesn’t that make you trash, too, senpai?”

Imayoshi doesn’t answer. There’s weight at Hanamiya’s spine, extra pressure crushing him into the floor, and then the other’s knee is pinning him down instead of his hand. There’s motion, sound Hanamiya could pull apart into meaning if he cared to, but he doesn’t bother; he’s distracted by the near-painful ache in his stomach, the desire for friction that is coaxing the first spill of pre-come out of his cock to stick and stain against the inside of Imayoshi’s uniform shorts.

“I guess that makes us a perfect pair,” he says, dipping his head down so he can bite against the collar of the jersey and imprint a mark of his bleeding lip there, too. His shoulder aches from the weight of Imayoshi’s knee, it’s hard to catch his breath with the crush of the other boy atop him, but he gasps a breath anyway, twists his thumb in under his hips so he can manage a half-grip on himself. “Nothing left but to use each other, right?”

“Shut up,” Imayoshi says, his voice still perfectly level. He shifts himself back, reaches down to catch slippery fingers against Hanamiya’s skin. Hanamiya didn’t even hear him open the lube.

“What, did I hit a nerve?” He barks a laugh, drags at his arm in a futile attempt to wrest it free from the bruising force of Imayoshi’s knee. “Who exactly do you think you’re fucking?”

Fingers close over his mouth, callused fingertips digging in pain at the edge of Hanamiya’s mouth. “Be quiet,” Imayoshi says, his voice still calm in contrast to the tension in his fingers, and thrusts a pair of fingers into the other’s body. It makes Hanamiya jerk, the stretch too much to be even faintly pleasurable for the first moment, but the pain feels like heat and draws a strangled groan from his throat, muffed and damp against the press of Imayoshi’s palm. It’s easier, after that first thrust, even when Imayoshi starts to shove into him with absolutely no evidence of consideration for Hanamiya’s comfort. He’s hard already, it’s not like he needs more persuasion, and the uncaring force is satisfying too, the same vicious sadism Hanamiya has come to crave at Imayoshi’s hands. He keeps his mouth open, breathes hard and wet against Imayoshi’s palm as he grinds his fingers roughly over himself, while some back part of his thoughts notes the unusual demand for silence. Imayoshi has never had a problem with Hanamiya’s jabs before, has been perfectly willing to let Hanamiya moan and curse and spit vitriol in the past. He only gets aggressive when it comes to physical violence, and even then it’s more simple control that he attains and holds, like now, with the force of his knee bruising against Hanamiya’s spine and twisting painful in the other’s wrist.

Hanamiya can feel his torn lip pulling taut and aching when he grins, psychological satisfaction uncurling into his blood better than his fingers can do alone. “Stressed, senpai?”

The hand tightens against his mouth, a pair of fingers shoving past his lips to hold his tongue down and cut off the last pretense of intelligibility, and that’s better answer than Hanamiya expected to ever get.

He doesn’t stop pushing his fingers in over himself. It’s still satisfying, takes the edge off the vicious desire for more than what even the shove of Imayoshi’s fingers can give him, and his body is willing enough to respond even as his mind tries to feel out the unfamiliar shape of this new dynamic and decide how he feels about it. Being used is nothing new; that’s what Hanamiya likes, anyway, what he suspects Imayoshi enjoys as much as he does. It’s more than half the other’s fault that Hanamiya even parsed his own preferences, years and years past, it seems a simple matter of efficiency to use each other for satisfaction. But this is something different, sadism layered atop the self-destructive urge that Hanamiya is used to claiming as his own, and he’s not entirely sure he’s ready to act as the stand-in for the abuse Imayoshi wants to throw on himself.

Imayoshi doesn’t give him time to work through all the implications. He moves his knee, lets Hanamiya’s arm free before his fingers draw back all at once, a jerk of motion that makes Hanamiya moan as much in anticipation as in shock, and then he’s pressing in so quickly he must have taken the time to unzip his jeans before he even spilled lube on his fingers. There’s a moment of resistance, difficulty in the angle, Hanamiya thinks first, and it’s not until Imayoshi shifts his hips and shoves in hard that he realizes it’s because the other boy isn’t as hard as he usually is, his cock speaking to the disconnect between this and their more usual interaction. It’s a strange feeling, the pressure of Imayoshi flushing into full arousal while he’s half-inside Hanamiya, but then he’s moving, thrusting forward to press his hips flush with Hanamiya’s and giving the other all the stretched-wide fill that pushes all the air out of his lungs in one gusting rush. Hanamiya groans, loud and damp around Imayoshi’s fingers in his mouth, and he’s moving his newly freed hand but only to brace himself against the floor, to drag his fingernails grating over the surface like they’ll give him some kind of traction to push himself back.

Imayoshi doesn’t hesitate in this anymore than he ever has. He’s sure in his movements, apparently no more hesitant to fuck Hanamiya out of frustration than out of his usual pleasure in destruction. And it feels good, it aches and burns and sparks under Hanamiya’s skin like it always does, the painful pull of his body skidding by inches over the floor whetting his desire as much as the fingers he has pressed around himself. But they’re both quiet, much quieter than usual -- Hanamiya because of the fingers in his mouth, Imayoshi for reasons Hanamiya doesn’t know but can guess at. He can feel the other’s gaze locked at his shoulders, can hear the steady focus in Imayoshi’s breathing as his moves, and there’s no trace of the catch of a smile behind it or the purr of almost a laugh under the sound. It’s just focused, determined, like shattering Hanamiya apart is a job instead of the pleasure it usually seems, and the awareness of that is curdling sour and far more agonizing in Hanamiya’s stomach than any of the surface-layer hurt.

He whines, some shape of protest on his tongue, but Imayoshi doesn’t pause for that any more than he ever has before, and after all Hanamiya hasn’t stopped stroking with his hand. The heat under his skin is too insistent to be quelled by the rising sense of unease, the weird discomfort between his shoulderblades and drawing tight in his throat, and when he tips his hips up to get a better angle for the motion of his hand Imayoshi slides in deeper, the head of his cock shoving in against Hanamiya until any discomfort is gone in white-out response. That helps, helps more than anything else, so Hanamiya does it again, pushes his hips up off the floor until his thighs are shaking with the effort, until his back is straining from the steep angle he’s forcing on it. And Imayoshi just keeps going, steady hard thrusts that Hanamiya can feel jolting up the whole length of his spine and grounding out at the back of his skull, and his skin is flushed and his breathing is coming hard and his eyes are burning, now, aching dully until he has to shut his eyes in a desperate attempt to quell the hurt. He’s going harder under his own hold, his cock swelling in the telltale pre-orgasmic ache, and his forehead is creasing with a pain he can’t identify and can’t trace back to its source. Then the tension of satisfaction gives way, snaps out into pulsing pleasure in his veins as he bites down on Imayoshi’s fingers, and as he spills come over his fingers and onto the floor he blinks and realizes his cheeks are damp.

“Fuck,” Hanamiya tries to say. But Imayoshi’s fingers are still in his mouth, in spite of the bruising-force bite he delivered seconds ago, and even when Hanamiya whimpers protest the other shows no sign of moving. He’s still moving over him, the same unceasing rhythm of his hips as he thrusts into the other, and Hanamiya is  _crying_ , his chest aching from the inside out with a pressure he doesn’t understand, as if he’s borrowed more than just Imayoshi’s uniform. There’s something painful about the situation, a weird emotional dissonance on which he can’t gain traction, and usually this sort of thing would make him laugh but the only humor to be found is bitter and dry as ashes on the back of his tongue. Hanamiya shuts his eyes, squeezes them shut like that will somehow stem the tears, but it does no good; the sobs are starting now, choking up his throat with as much misery as if he’s feeling Imayoshi’s loss personally, like he’s crying out all the grief the other isn’t showing. He’s choking, he can’t breathe and he can’t stop crying, and Imayoshi’s fingers at his cheek are going wet and there’s a sound over him, a faint sigh as if of relief, and Imayoshi goes still as he spills inside Hanamiya.

It fades quickly, at least. Whatever borrowed emotion is trembling through Hanamiya’s shoulders is gone by the time Imayoshi has pulled out of him and slid his bruised fingers past Hanamiya’s teeth. Imayoshi doesn’t say anything, either, not while Hanamiya is sitting up too-fast and dragging the jersey up to swipe at the unfamiliar damp at his cheeks, so roughly he tears open the scabbed-over cut at his lip and starts bleeding again. The blood is better than the tears, the sharp burn of the taste enough to drown out the faint salt at his lips, and by the time he emerges from Imayoshi’s jersey to toss it at the other boy he feels very nearly himself again.

“What are you going to do with that?” he asks with as much taunt as he can muster, glancing up through the weight of his hair at Imayoshi to make sure the other isn’t laughing at him more than usual. “Throw it out?”

Imayoshi turns the jersey over in his hands, twists it into a ball like he’s trying to press the stains farther into the fabric. “I don’t think so,” he says, gets to his feet so he’s looking down at Hanamiya kneeling on the floor. “I seem to have an affinity for filth, after all.” Then he smiles, tips his head to turn the edge of the expression blade-sharp, and something in Hanamiya breathes a sigh of relieved recognition.

“Feel free to shower before you go home,” Imayoshi says, turning away without bothering to see Hanamiya get to his feet.

Hanamiya does, runs the water so long it’s going cold by the time he gets out just to be an inconvenience to Imayoshi. When he leaves he leaves the uniform shorts on the bathroom floor, too, pulls his own clothes back on and doesn’t bother announcing he’s leaving.

It’s the end of high school basketball for Imayoshi, but nothing’s over between them. Hanamiya’s not sure they will ever be done with each other.


End file.
